I grew up Mvskoke in rural Oklahoma, but I’m not sure I was a true ‘Reservation Dog’


I wasn’t connecting with last night’s Reservation Dogs, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed relevant in my life.

I was not a Reservation Dog. To my young Native and Mvskoke Creek friends who were, and lived in a rural community in McIntosh County, I was probably thought of as an outsider. They had endured conflicts and experienced day-to-day issues I couldn’t imagine. My elder parents, who had endured enough conflict in their own lives, sheltered me from a lot of pain.

1976 version of Tommy Cummings

I think my Rez Dog friends realized this and kept me at a distance. But they still shared their lives with me likely as a means of helping me understand the differences. I was intrigued by my friends, but they probably studied me, too. My school was six miles away from the 160-acre homestead we’d had before statehood. My mother routinely ran off my friends after I invited them over, telling them privately they should not get me involved with them. She and her husband, who had adopted me off a Wisconsin reservation when I was an infant, went out of their way to keep me out of trouble.

How did my life become closer to my Mvskoke culture? Regrettably, in my case, not through my friends. To them, I was more of an observer than a participant. My introduction to my connection with Native relatives and friends came decades later when I learned more about my own family roots.

To recap: The Cummings family was forced out of Alabama and moved to Indian Territory in the Trails of Tears era. My grandfather, who journeyed with his mother to Indian Territory, created quite the life in Oklahoma, having success as a pastor, a rancher, and a businessman. Through research, I learned about his work with the U.S. government in distributing allotments to other tribal members. He also worked within tribal government as a leader. He made a difference. He did things for the displaced Mvskoke Nation when few would. My father, a war hero, was a mekko for a ceremonial ground and fluent in our tribal language. I should have paid better attention to him and learned more about the Cummings family.

In the latest episode, Willie Jack was able to get in touch with past generations for spiritual guidance. I had no idea I had that kind of connection. I’m sure it would have been tough to comprehend this. I wish my parents had been more forthcoming about their cultural backgrounds.

Don’t get me wrong: I had the support system of my own local Rez Dogs, but I didn’t understand nor empathize with them like I should have. I regret that. Watching Reservation Dogs on TV made me realize I wasn’t there for them, not because I didn’t want to be, but because I didn’t understand. When things got real, I could quickly retreat from a harsh environment, which was actually six miles away, and back into a life that was more sheltered.

I greatly valued friendship with my friends. I won a small academic scholarship in high school. My friends rushed to congratulate me, which felt good. My mother, who cultivated my arrogance because she knew I would need it throughout life, said any academic rewards should be expected not celebrated. (I’m not sure that was healthy, but she had “boarding-school” cred, and I didn’t.)

Thanks to Sterlin Harjo’s writing staff, I’m beginning to see where I fell short as a friend. I saw glances of my life in previous Reservation Dogs episodes, but after last night I see now that I wasn’t as immersed as I’d thought, or should have been.

‘I’m here to fight robots, not bike racks’: Second BattleBots loss pushes HUGE team leader into corner


Hydrea puts HUGE in the corner in their match. (Screen capture)

HUGE, the fighting robot with the oversized wheels, faces an uphill climb if it hopes to make the 32-team, single-elimination BattleBots tournament televised on the Discovery Channel.

In the Jan. 8 episode, HUGE battled Hydra and lost a unanimous decision much to the disappointment of the crowd, which, because of COVID-19 protocols, included an audience of mostly BattleBots competitors.

The loss was HUGE‘s second loss in as many bouts, but it might have been Team HUGE‘s most frustrating.

Hydra modified its design drastically, ignoring its flipping weapon and configuring a bar resembling wide antlers over the bot’s chassis. The design was intended to neutralize HUGE‘s vertical spinning blade, working much like a football stiff arm.

The ploy worked. Hydra pushed HUGE into a corner and ran out the clock.

HUGE’s vertical spinner reached Hydra only once and the bot escaped with no visible damage. Hydra was able to maneuver HUGE into the arena’s 100-pound hammer, which delivered the only blow in the 3-minute match.

Learn more about HUGE

Pandemic Doesn’t Stop Mouser Bot From ‘BattleBots’ Competition

“I’m going to do what I have to to win,” said Jake Ewert, Hydra’s lead engineer.
HUGE engineer Jonathan Schultz did not appreciate the strategy.

“I’m here to fight robots, not bike racks,” Schultz said after the match. “And whenever (Ewert) is ready to have a real fight with his actual robot, we’ll be here, batteries charged, ready for it.”

HUGE (0-2) lost its opening match to Mammoth. That means making the tournament will be a challenge.

Meanwhile, competitors in the pit didn’t like Hydra’s modification.

Asked whether he liked being the villain on BattleBots, Ewert replied: “I know I am. So I might as well keep playing it, right?”

Correction: A previous version of this post stated that Mammoth was a 500-pound walking bot. This has been corrected.

Would you look here? I have kinfolk who played football at St. John’s College in the 1920s


From the Sept. 14, 1924 edition of The Brooklyn (N.Y.) Daily Eagle.

My book research diverted a bit when a Facebook friend asked whether I knew of Nathaniel McCombs, who was a star football player from Eufaula, Okla., and played college football in New York. I dug around and found out he was a part of the McCombs family, which was my mother’s family. He was my mother Mildred’s first cousin, the son of William McCombs, who was one of the founders of Bacone College in Muskogee and my maternal great grandfather.

Anyway, on a college football Saturday, I found this article from the Sept. 14, 1924 edition of The Brooklyn (N.Y.) Daily Eagle:

INDIAN FOOTBALL STAR TO PLAY ON ST. JOHN’S ELEVEN
McCombs Joins Big Red Squad—Is Brilliant Athlete

It has been many a day since a full-blooded Indian has exploited his accomplishments on the gridiron in the East. The suspension of football at Carlisle has made an Injun moleskin wearer a rare bird in this part of the country. However, right at the present time in this noble boro of ours we have an individual in Nathaniel McCombs, a brown copper-skinned giant from the oil fields in Oklahoma, who will do his stuff with St. John’s College this season.

McCombs will make a desperate attempt to emulate the most famous athlete of his race, Jim Thorpe. He has the physique to realize his ambition and before the season is over he may be the talk of the collegiate football world. McCombs, a member of the Creek Tribe, is a native of Eufaula, Okla., where he starred on the high school team of that city for four consecutive years. He was such a brilliant all-around luminary that he was given all-scholastic recognition in that part of the country.

When Virgil Jones, who established an enviable record as coach of the Sapulpa (Okla.) High School team, was signed to assist Ray Lynch in training St. John’s College eleven, McCombs joined several of Jones’ proteges in following their mentor East. All of the Oklahomans graduated from high school last spring and none of them boast of a better scholastic record than McCombs. He is a very ambitious student, who does believe in letting athletes interfere with his studies.

McCombs, although has not yet reached his majority, is a splendid specimen of manhood. He is 19 years old, 5 feet 11 inches in height, and weighs 225 pounds. He plays tackle and is said to be a mighty dependable one. In what practice sessions he has engaged in with St. John’s he has displayed rare form. Many see in him the making of a product for Walter Camp’s All-American teams. Despite his size, he is extremely fast and a veritable stone wall on the line. He has all the other attributes that go to make a successful gridder. He and his fellow residents from Oklahoma hope to give the Willoughby Avenue institution a team far superior to the unbeaten eleven of a year ago.

Onset of World War I turns Dad’s world upside down


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I’m doing research on a book about my father and his mindset and those of other young Native men on their journey to World War I battlefields. #WWIBook

In learning more about my dad’s history at Haskell Institute in Lawrence, Kan., it’s interesting to learn about the enthusiasm young Native men at this boarding school had about fighting in World War I. Dad and 37 other classmates joined the Kansas National Guard on May 21, the first day of enlistment at Haskell and a month after President Wilson declared war on Germany.

Dad’s father was a Civil War veteran, so it’s not surprising Dad bought into the militaristic-style programs of assimilation at the school. He was a captain in Haskell’s cadet corps. He contributed to the school’s Liberty Bond drive. Dad also was in his third year at Haskell and his father, who was a businessman, farmer and cattleman, depended on his five able-bodied sons to tend to the homestead in McIntosh County. How would Dad tell his father? Would his father accept that his son would be fighting for the U.S. on another continent?

The onset of the war also would turn Dad’s world upside down at Haskell, which in 1916, was called the best vocational training course in the U.S. by the Department of the Interior. The school was known to be a power to be reckoned with on a national college football scale in that era and would be the next Carlisle Indian School. The 1917 team went 6-5. The five losses were all road games in Lake Bluff, Ill., Milwaukee, Houston, Omaha and Memphis. Carlisle would close in 1918, thus bringing Haskell into the spotlight as the prominent Native athletic school. Dad loved being a part of the program. He was a track star in high school but wanted to play football, too. In his second year, he broke his leg in a game and turned to coaching. When war was declared and classmates were enlisting, Haskell looked like it would have to do like other schools and either cancel or shorten their seasons.

Dad knew this was coming and it might have been one of the reasons he enlisted. He was right. The war effort, in addition to the national influenza epidemic, resulted in a two-game season, both losses (against Oklahoma A&M at Stillwater and Washburn in Topeka) for Haskell. Road games were tough because fans were expected to see “nineteenth-century savages” play and they were paraded in front of the media in full costume for the sake of publicity.

So much more to learn. To be continued …

How Uncle Ed influenced my career path


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My mom, Mildred, me, and Uncle Ed.

What single moment in your life inspired you to take your chosen career?

I “retired” from journalism after 40 years, but I’ve continued to use my skillset as a corporate copy writer and editor. But one moment did inspire me to drop pharmacy as a career and pursue a liberal arts profession.

That moment was 47 years ago. My father was a former OU football season ticket holder. When he adopted me, he traded in his tickets to be a late-in-life dad. Around 1971, I started showing interest in OU football in particular and sports in general. Dad was unable to take me to a game, so my Uncle Ed stepped up.

Uncle Ed surprised me one spring day when he unexpectedly dropped by and told me to get ready to go with him to see the OU Varsity-Alumni game. Norman was just a 90-minute drive west on the highway going by my house.

Before going into the stadium, we walked past the press box entrance. I saw guys filing in with briefcases and notebooks.

“Where are those guys going?” I asked my uncle.

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Me in my press box seat at Memorial Stadium. (Fox Sports screen capture)

He said that, judging by the sign above that entrance, they were going into the press box to write about the game.

“Whaaaa? You mean these guys get paid to write about this?” I asked, knowing the answer.

I made a mental note.

When college rolled around, I headed to a junior college because I knew there was no way OU would offer me a scholarship for my rural-school valedictorian certificate. OU was always the destination because it was my dedication to my late dad.

So, it all worked out. Thanks to the junior college, I was able to get a good j-school education and find part-time work at a nearby newspaper. In junior college, I earned the OU scholarship I sought. When I finally landed one of my bucket-list jobs and ended up being a sports editor at the Muskogee paper at age 24, I assigned myself to cover OU football games. By then, I was familiar with the OU press box entrance. And because Muskogee players had a tradition of excellence in athletics at OU, I had a prime seat in the press box.

Front row.

Center.

Thanks, Uncle Ed.

How shop class builds strong minds, inflamed corneas


photography of a person wearing welding mask
Photo by Aman Jakhar on Pexels.com

It might be the cabin fever, but I’ve noticed my son interested in hearing about my experiences in a rural school, especially shop class. Usually he rolls his eyes when he hears a yarn about to be spun. Last night, he listened:

When the subject of soldering came up, my wife

wanted him to hear about my adventures in learning to weld. Particularly, the part about arc eye, a painful inflammation of the corneas caused by staring at a welding arc. Our shop teacher warned us to not look at the flash without a helmet. We did what kids do: We stared at it. Later that night, the inflammation settled in and all of us guys were in misery, believing we’d gone blind. Our shop teacher, predicting this, was ready to take calls from concerned moms. Sure enough, the calls came. He told the moms to cut a potato in half and put the raw part on our eyes. The next day, we showed up at school with red puffy eyes.

I also told the story about the rush that the shop class guys got by defying orders and running to the gym when the teacher wasn’t looking. When the shop teacher would go to the main school building, we’d make a dash to the gym to the vending machine, buy something then run back. This time, the shop teacher must have seen me just as I slipped back into the shop building with a bag of potato chips. I shotgunned the chips then put on my welding hood and started welding. The shop teacher walked over to me, told me to raise my welding hood and asked: “Tommy, did you go to the gym?” I said: “No.” He asked: “Are you lying?” I replied: “No sir.” He said, OK. Just as I put my hood down, I noticed a large potato chip on my face.

Then, I brought up the shenanigans that guys played on each other while welding. When one of us would be welding with our hood down, someone would covertly turn up the settings to high on the welding machine. This would cause the welding rod to explode and disintegrate because of the increased power. Of course, you took off your helmet to see what was going on and you’d be sprayed by the now exploding welding rod. You’d have burn freckles on your face.

Finally, I told him how one classmate was able to deflect the exams that the teacher would administer. Our shop teacher would walk to Billy Jack first to hand him the paper test. Before accepting the test, Billy Jack would say: “I don’t believe in God.” Our shop teacher was devout, so he looked surprised at the comment (it really wasn’t the first time) and returned the tests to his desk and turned his attention to preaching. When he finished, Billy Jack would reply: “Thank you, sir. I believe in God now.” No test that day.

No bones about it … I’m not mowing again


Someone once asked why I hire a landscaper. Didn’t you grow up in the country on that big homestead? Surely, you had to mow. Surely you learned something from it.

Yeah. I learned not to do it anymore.

Mowing reminds me of the time when I was 10 and nearly killed by dad while mowing the yard.

In his latter years, Dad sat on a metal chair on our front porch, resting his feet on a column and leaning back to enjoy the warm Oklahoma breezes. As I mowed our gigantic 1-acre yard one day, I heard a loud pop and a whiz. Obviously, I’d hit a bone (the dogs had dragged up the remnants of plenty of critters). I looked around and didn’t see damage. I shrugged my shoulders and finished the chore. Having finished, I walked up to the porch, said hi to Dad and noticed a hole in the screen door just behind where he was sitting. I headed to my room, which was to my immediate left. Then, I noticed a gash in the wall. And on the bed, the bone — a small animal’s hip bone. Whoa. Then, I looked toward my dad, who was still sitting in his chair beyond the screen door. I looked at the angle in relation to the gashes in the screen and wall. Then, I looked at the bone again. Then Dad. Then the spot in the yard where I hit the bone.

The mower hit the bone and fired it past my dad’s ear. The bone zipped through the screen, hit the wall and fell on my bed. Like a large piece of shrapnel.

My heart sank. I rushed to Dad, showed him the bone and told him what happened and I told him I was sorry.

He listened then grinned. It didn’t bother him in the least. His swagger was always inspiring. I don’t recall his exact words, but it was something like “If I didn’t get hit by shrapnel in the war, it was never going to happen.”

Loved the answer. Didn’t love mowing thereafter.

Whatever happened to Mr. Green?


Ever since I saw my adoption papers a few years ago, I’ve always wondered about Mr. Otho Green. I’ve searched for his background and have found little information. Growing up around Eufaula, Okla., you’d see him often. He dressed in fashionable suits, wore a felt cowboy hat like my dad’s, and kept a pocket watch on a gold chain in his silky vest. He always took time to say hello to me, whether on the street or at JM’s Restaurant. He knew my parents and most of my relatives in Eufaula.

When I was about 10 or so, I was with my parents at a general store in Eufaula, and I saw Mr. Green strolling down the street toward the courthouse. Out of nowhere, a man jumped in front of him, grabbed his walking cane and hit Mr. Green in the forehead with it, sending him to the ground and causing his spectacles to slide into the street under a pickup. Other men quickly subdued the attacker, who must have been upset at one of Mr. Green’s legal actions. Soaked in blood, Mr. Green sat upright on the pavement, his face reddened and his crisp white shirt now bright red. I approached and asked how I could help. He was looking for his glasses. I saw them fly off and go under the truck. I was able to crawl under the truck and get his broken spectacles. It was one of those things you don’t forget when you’re a kid.

When I was about 25, I worked at the Muskogee newspaper and picked out Mr. Green to profile for a weekly front-page feature. I’d never talked to him as an adult and was a little intimidated when I met him for the interview. We talked about my parents and why I pursued a journalism career instead of law. I mentioned the attack and he laughed about it before thanking me for finding his glasses. Then, changing subjects, Mr. Green asked what my parents told me about my background. I told him that I knew I was adopted, but I didn’t have all the details. I asked what he knew. He said other people would have to tell me more. Not long ago, I saw his name on my adoption papers.

I never got a chance to thank him.

Pandemic is nothing compared to what Dad lived through


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People post about how rough this pandemic is getting. It’s been no picnic for sure. On the upside, it has prompted me to think more about my dad, Thomas Cummings, who was born in 1894, just in time to see some of the most trying moments of the 20th century.

Dad survived World War I, living through deadly mustard gas attacks before finally fighting in the pivotal Argonne-Meuse offensive that led to the Armistice. He lived through the Spanish Flu, a pandemic that killed millions. He made it through the Great Depression as a land owner. He earned a civil-service pension as a munitions worker during World War II. He lived through the stresses of the Korean and Vietnam wars, the Cuban missile crisis and a president’s assassination. He was a successful rancher and sustained a vast homestead. He attended OU football games during its historic 47-game winning streak. In retirement, he took the time to adopt a fatherless infant, his great nephew, off a Menominee reservation in Wisconsin.

Every day, I appreciate my dad’s perseverance. I hope to someday honor him by writing a book based on his extraordinary life. I like to think that I’ve seen things, but I’ll never match my dad.

 

 

In my eyes, the mother of all Mother’s Days


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I typically don’t celebrate such Hallmark holidays. But I had a memorable Mother’s Day in 1985.

It was after my newspaper’s deadline on a Sunday night and I was checking a file that I kept for daily reminders. I noticed that it had been a full year since my mother, the wonderful wife of the man who adopted me, had died.

At her funeral, I vowed to myself that I would contact my birth mother exactly one year later. It seemed fair. My adopted parents had given my birth mom, a teenager at the time, a full year to decide whether to let them adopt me.

It was after deadline. I had free time, so I decided to go for it.

This was a big step in learning my background because my adopted mom never told me that I was adopted. When I was 8, I had figured it out on my own using stealthy journalism skills. (Actually, my adopted parents just failed to guard some important papers when they weren’t in the house).

I never pressed my adopted mom on my adoption. Neither did she volunteer any information. I figured that she had her reasons. She didn’t have children of her own, but she’d raised several of my cousins and was an awesome mom.

From hints here and there, I did know my birth mom’s name and where she lived. I knew she was listed in the phone book because I once checked. But she lived nearly 4,000 miles away, in Alaska, so popping in was out of the question.

So, I made the call with the intention of just blurting out “Hi, Mom.” Instead, my call crashed a party that my sister was having. At first she thought it was a prank. But I provided details that prompted her to stop and listen. She told me she’d have her mother call me back.

Obviously, my birth mom, after being told about the call by my sister, had some anxiety about talking with me. It took her a couple of times before she could say words over the phone. When she did, I told her that I was grateful for her, that everything was cool, and I’ve had a wonderful life.

My sister wanted to see me as soon as possible. She invited me to her upcoming wedding in Anchorage. I bought a plane ticket the next day. In Anchorage, I got to meet my sister, brother and other relatives. Because it was my sister’s moment, I stayed in the background as much as possible. Mostly, I recall the very tight hug that my birth mom gave me when I greeted her at the airport.

When I returned to Oklahoma, my birth mom remained in contact. I visited her when she attended a conference in Santa Fe. She visited me in Oklahoma. Mostly, we talked over the phone.

She died in 2004. I miss her, of course. I miss my adopted mom, too.

So, yeah, I know what it’s like to remember moms. Luckily for me, I have two to remember.